‘At the time, I was angry with him. Hated him for putting my poor mother through it. She had enough on her plate with my father, believe me. I thought, stupidly, that he had some choice about the way he behaved.’
‘You don’t think that now?’ Ellen asked.
Jim shook his head. ‘He can’t help who he is. I didn’t understand that back then. It’s because of him I left home and went travelling. I wanted to get away. From all of them. From Ray and his problems and my parents and their inability to see him for what he really was.’
Except he came back. And now here he was, sitting beside her, brown hair hanging down over a greeny-blue eye. Brown hair speckled with sparkles of golden sunlight. Eyes the colour of the sea on a summer’s day. Their arms were touching. She could feel the outline of hard muscle through the fabric of his shirt. She remembered what his body looked like naked. The memory made her shiver.
‘What made you think about me and Ray?’ Jim asked.
‘Sean, I guess,’ Ellen said. ‘I miss him sometimes. We’re not as close as we used to be. Which is normal, of course. Except I’ve done something and haven’t told him about it and I feel guilty.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I should have spoken to him first.’
The folded sheet of white paper on the table by her bed. Folded over to cover up the writing she knew by heart. Each word branded onto her brain.
Noreen McGrath, Hope House, Middle Road, Shilbottle, Alnwick, Northumberland, NE66 2TH.
‘I’ve found our mother,’ Ellen said. ‘Noreen. I’ve got an address and a telephone number. I’m going to contact her.’
‘And Sean won’t like that?’ Jim asked.
‘He wants to forget all about her,’ Ellen said. ‘I can’t do that. I thought I could. I tried, really tried, but it’s no good. I need to know why she did it.’
Jim’s silence irritated her.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘You think I should leave it?’
‘Sorry,’ Jim said. ‘I was just thinking… it must have been so terrible for her. Bad enough losing one child, but then to lose the other two as well. Being locked up all that time, knowing you and Sean were out there somewhere, without her. She must have felt so helpless.’
Ellen had to swallow the lump in her throat before she was able to speak.
‘So you think it’s the right thing?’ she asked.
He squeezed her arm. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Only I can’t help thinking,’ Ellen said. ‘If she’d wanted to find me, she’d have done something about it herself.’
His phone started ringing. He jumped up, pulled it from his pocket, checked the caller’s number and diverted the call.
‘Take it if you need to,’ Ellen said.
He shook his head.
‘Your mother was convicted of murdering your sister,’ he said. ‘She spent time in prison. Even if Eilish’s death was an accident – and you don’t know that it wasn’t – the guilt she must have felt, can you imagine what that would do to a person? Just being on trial… And for the death of your own daughter.’ He shook his head. ‘She might not want to talk about it. Will you be okay with that?’
Standing there like that in front of the church, hands held out, he reminded Ellen of Christ on the cross. Except hotter than that. A lot hotter. He wore a white linen shirt. The top buttons were open, revealing a patch of tanned skin and the silver chain he wore around his neck. The sun reflected off the small medallion hanging off the chain so that it seemed to glow with its own light. The chain had belonged to his father and he once told her that he never took it off. Ellen pictured herself walking over to him, running her hand up inside the shirt, along his flat stomach.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘Not anymore. Do you mind?’
‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s go back to the market and spend some money. There must be something we can pick up for Pat and Eilish.’
They walked away from the church and into the throng of Deptford Market. The noise and bustle was just what she needed right now. It helped block out the dark thoughts she didn’t want.
Twenty-Five
‘We’re going out again tonight.’
‘Who?’
‘Me and Carl, of course.’ Chloe frowned. ‘The guy from work. I’ve just been telling you about him. Haven’t you been listening?’
‘I’m confused,’ Anne said. ‘I thought you worked with Nathan.’
Anne sounded groggy, like she’d just woken up. But it was nearly midday.
‘I work with both of them,’ Chloe said. ‘But you’ve met Nathan. Surely you don’t think… I mean, I know he’s lovely and everything, but not in that way.’
‘Sorry,’ Anne said. ‘Of course. Right then. Where are you going and what are you going to wear?’
‘He’s taking me for dinner. Some new restaurant in Blackheath he says is lovely,’ Chloe said. ‘And that’s the problem, I don’t know what to wear. What do you think?’
Anne laughed. ‘Chloe, darling, I have no idea what your wardrobe looks like.’
Of course. Stupid, stupid. What was she thinking?
‘Sorry,’ Chloe said. ‘I’d better go. I’m still at work and Nathan will be back soon. I don’t want him to know about me and Carl. He wouldn’t approve.’
‘Whoa,’ Anne said. ‘You can’t leave it there. I’ll tell you what, Chloe, I’ll come over later. Help you get ready. I’ll bring a bottle of something fizzy. Get you in the mood. How does that sound?’
‘Are you sure?’ Chloe asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Anne said. ‘Isn’t that what friends are for?’
It was only when she hung up that Chloe noticed Nathan had come back in at some point. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, staring at her. She wanted to ask how long he’d been there, but something about the look on his face stopped her. It was a look she’d never seen before: disappointment mixed with anger. Or maybe she was just imagining it.
She smiled brightly and turned to her computer, pretending to get on with her work. Even though she was so excited about later, work was the very last thing on her mind right now.
When she looked back again, Nathan was still standing in the same spot.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
His face cleared and he smiled, transforming him from an ogre to the friend she knew and trusted.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You?’
She nodded, tension draining from her body, glad it had only been her imagination.
‘I’m fine, too,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
Twenty-Six
It was early afternoon by the time Ellen collected the children from their sleepover. They’d spent the night with their friends, Rufus and Izzy. Their mother, Kirstie, insisted on dragging Ellen in for a coffee and a ‘date debrief’.
‘You’ve got that glow,’ Kirstie said. ‘The one you only see on women who’ve been having too much good sex.’
‘Can you have too much good sex?’ Ellen asked.
Kirstie looked glum. ‘How would I know? The last time I had a good shag was in my late twenties. In that rare time when things were actually good between Phil and me. Before I found out I wasn’t the only person he was having great sex with. So come on, gory details please. I’ve no love life of my own so I have to share yours. What was it like?’
‘We had a great time,’ Ellen said. ‘I like him. A lot, I think. At the risk of tempting fate, I’d say things are going pretty well right now.’
Better than that. After checking out of the hotel, he’d driven her home and they’d gone straight to bed. Again. She’d thought it might feel strange, having sex in the bed she’d once shared with Vinny. But it wasn’t. Everything about being with Jim felt right.
‘Are you seeing him later?’ Kirstie asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ Ellen said. ‘I wanted to spend some time with the kids this evening. Not that they seem bothered one way or the other.’
In fact, when she�
�d come to collect them, both children had been disappointed to see her, begging her to let them spend another night at their friends’ house.
‘They’re welcome to stay,’ Kirstie said.
Ellen shook her head. No matter how brilliant Jim was, being with her children was more important. She’d promised them a movie and pizza night and that’s what she was going to give them. Whether they liked it or not.
Besides, Jim hadn’t asked to see her tonight. Which was fine with Ellen. Things were great right now and she hoped they’d continue that way, but she wasn’t going to rush things. And she certainly wasn’t going to let him take priority over being with her children. They would always come first.
* * *
They ordered pizzas from Geronimo’s Pizza House on Trafalgar Road (‘the crack cocaine of pizzas’ was how Vinny used to describe them) and watched The Princess Bride, Ellen’s all-time favourite children’s movie.
When the film ended, she took Eilish to bed then stayed up chatting with Pat, the two of them snuggled on the sofa together. His latest obsession was Minecraft and he spoke compulsively about his kingdom, his favourite Minecraft videos on YouTube and the pros and cons of Minecraft PC versus Minecraft for tablets. Midway through a lengthy explanation about the Minecraft game, Pat suddenly asked about Jim.
‘If he’s a plumber,’ Pat said, ‘does that mean he has to stick his hand inside people’s toilets when they’re broken?’
‘Sometimes, I suppose,’ Ellen said. ‘Why don’t you ask him when we see him tomorrow?’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’ Pat asked.
‘Jim’s coming with us to Sean and Terry’s for lunch,’ Ellen said. ‘Is that okay?’
Pat shrugged. ‘Suppose so. I don’t care, really. He’s okay, Jim. He’s funny. But I don’t want to live in his house, Mum. I like living here. He lives miles away and it’s really far from my school and where my friends live.’
‘We’re not moving into Jim’s house,’ Ellen said, making her voice sound as firm as she possibly could. ‘This is your home, Pat, and I have no intention of moving out. Not now, not anytime in the future either.’
‘Yeah but what if you and Jim get married?’
‘I’ve only been seeing him a few weeks,’ Ellen said.
‘Eight weeks and four days,’ Pat interrupted.
‘Okay. Eight weeks and four days. Way too early to think about anything long-term.’
‘So you might stop seeing him and get a different boyfriend instead?’
‘No!’ Ellen nudged him with her elbow. ‘Pat, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Jim. I like him and I think he likes me. Who knows what will happen in the future? For now, all I can do is take things one day at a time.’
Pat yawned and Ellen took that as her cue to suggest it was bedtime. For once, he didn’t protest. A few minutes later, he was tucked up in bed, eyes already closing as sleep swept down and claimed him. Ellen kissed him on the forehead, lingering for a moment as she always did, before she switched off his light and went to go. She was just closing the door when he said something.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘What was that? I didn’t catch it.’
‘I said I hope you don’t get a new boyfriend,’ Pat said. ‘I like Jim. He’s nice and you smile more when you’re with him.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Ellen said. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Night, Mum. Love you.’
‘Love you too, darling.’
Downstairs, Ellen went into the kitchen and poured herself a healthy measure of Merlot. She wanted Jim. Had barely stopped thinking about him all day. Worse than a besotted teenager. She stood in the kitchen, leaning against the island, drinking wine and going back over every detail of last night, wishing he was here now and they could do it all over again.
She finished her wine, poured another glass, went into the sitting room, put on a CD and sat down. The CD was from Jim. Elbow. A band she knew only because they’d played at the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Games. She loved every song on the CD, even the over-played One Day Like This. When it came on, she cranked up the volume, letting the soaring orchestral extravaganza fill the room.
Her phone was on the table. She picked it up and sent Jim a text: Home alone with Guy Garvey. What you up to?
He’d told her what he was doing but she couldn’t remember. Meeting his brother? Maybe. She wondered how late he’d stay out and if he’d think about dropping this way later. If he replied to her text, she would send him another text, suggesting just that.
But he didn’t reply. She drank more wine and listened to more music. At some point, unable to keep her eyes open, she drifted into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of a stranger in the house, creeping around upstairs, trying to steal the children from their beds.
She woke with a start, convinced at first it was more than a dream, that there really was someone there. It was only gradually, as she became more awake, that she realised she was okay.
A bad dream, nothing more than that. The children were safe and so was she.
Twenty-Seven
Monica knew, the moment she woke up, it was going to be a bad day. Too much wine the night before and not enough food. Turned her dreams into nightmares that were still with her. Her mother’s voice screaming at her, saying things a mother should never, ever say to her own child. This followed by something worse. The crying. Her mother bawling like a fucking baby and saying she was sorry, hadn’t meant a word of it. Liar. Repeating it over and over and over until Monica couldn’t bear it a single second longer.
In the kitchen, she washed down three Ibuprofen with two cups of strong black coffee. Her mother was still there but fading now, the voice getting quieter, replaced by other, normal noises, like the traffic on the road outside and the sound of the TV blaring through the wall from the house next door where deaf Mrs Mallet lived. Mrs Mallet who had two daughters who visited every Sunday without fail and a son who came most Wednesday afternoons with bags of shopping for his dear old mum. Mrs Mallet who probably never had a single exciting thing happen in her entire boring, suburban life lived utterly without purpose or meaning. Monica hated Mrs fucking Mallet and her bland, sycophantic offspring.
Products of their mother’s loins. The thought of it made her want to throw up. She’d never met Mr Mallet, who had ‘passed over to the other side’ some years before Monica moved here, but she felt sorry for him, having to spend his life with an ugly cow like that. She hoped he’d at least had a mistress, someone to add a bit of spice to a life that must have otherwise been unbearable.
How very different deaf Mrs Mallet was from her own mother…
It was difficult to remember the details of that afternoon. Her memories were fuzzy, almost as if she’d dreamed the whole thing. Or maybe she felt like that because part of her wished that was true.
Fuck it. Nothing to be gained by standing here thinking about what might have been. She threw her cup in the sink and called Kelly. When she’d finished on the phone, she went upstairs to get ready.
She was applying the final touches to her make-up when the doorbell rang. She stopped what she was doing, waited for whoever it was to go away. When the bell rang a second time, she went to the window and looked down, taking care to stay well hidden behind the curtain.
Part of her had hoped to see Ellen Kelly. When she recognised Harry’s dark, messy curls she bit her lip, disappointed. It was like Kelly had forgotten all about her already.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, taking her time. Added a touch more lipstick, opened another button on her shirt, making sure the curve of her breast and the black, lace bra could be easily seen. The bruises on her neck were still there but she’d covered them with make-up. If he asked about them, she’d think of something plausible. But she doubted it was her neck he’d be looking at. She shook out her hair, winked at herself and went downstairs.
Time to teach someone a lesson.
‘Got some really good skunk.’ Harry held out his hand
, showing her the small plastic bag filled with dried-out leaves. ‘Want to get wasted with me?’
She leaned forward, pretending to examine the package, making sure she rubbed against him, just gently enough so he wouldn’t know it was deliberate.
‘I’m meant to be meeting a friend,’ she said. ‘Maybe another time.’
He looked so disappointed, her mood lifted instantly. It was difficult to stay angry with him.
‘Good time the other night?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I called over,’ she said. ‘Friday night, I was feeling a bit bored. But you weren’t there. I assumed you were out with your girlfriend.’
His face flushed red, making him look even younger than he was.
‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he mumbled. ‘You know that, Mon.’
Anyone else, she wouldn’t let them get away with calling her that. The way he said it, though, there was something sweet about it. She’d better watch it or she’d start getting soft on this boy.
‘What do you mean you don’t have a girlfriend?’ she asked. She ran a finger along his cheek, feeling the heat. ‘A good-looking bloke like you. Girls must be falling over themselves.’
‘Not interested,’ he said. ‘Girls my age, they’re just so boring, you know?’
Poor sap was too transparent for words. If he wasn’t such a honey, she’d be tempted to slap his face, tell him to man up a bit. Hadn’t he ever heard of playing hard to get?
She moved forward until the tips of her breasts were touching his chest. His face turned even redder, his breathing was fast and shallow, pupils dilated so big the blue iris was barely there. She dropped her hand, let her fingers trail along the front of his trousers, touching the outline of his erection through the soft denim.
The Waiting Game Page 11